


The Prize

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Historical Romance - Fandom, Marvel, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Historical Romance, Romance, bodice ripper, tom hiddleston fan fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2018-10-22 06:11:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: AU Tom Hiddleston, set in early 19th c. London.  Madeleine and Tom have known each other since they were teenagers (her brother is married to his sister). Can they overcome their fears and choose each other?  Will love help them through the trials and surprises of life?  Drama, Romance, Angst, Heaving Bosoms, and Cravats ahead!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

 

A meat market. That’s what this was. There were some differences, of course. Lack of blood and the ridiculous abundance of fresh flowers made it much more tolerable on the senses. Her brother Pierre always had a weak spot for the roses that their mother had loved so much and it was one of the areas in which he hadn’t spared any expense in this debut ball for his daughter. The yelling of prices was also missing, although she could practically see pound signs shining in the eyes of the young men as they scanned the room in their search for the young women who had the most famous family names and fortunes.

Madeleine glanced over to where her niece Cassandra was dancing with one of those young men. Her naturally rosy cheeks were flushed an even darker shade than normal and she appeared to be having a wonderful time. Madeline sighed and wandered over to a vacant settee that was situated in a small alcove off the ballroom. She had never been the type of person who enjoyed these lavish parties, not even when she was Cassie’s age and they had been given in her honor. Tolerated them was more accurate. It wasn’t that she was afraid of people or painfully shy; she simply preferred to be in company with smaller groups of people, people with lively minds and interesting conversation.

She took a quick look around the room in order to ascertain that she wasn’t being watched and then slipped off her shoes, extended her feet from the hem of her light blue silk and gleefully wiggled her toes.

“You realize that I’ve seen your ankles and must now propose marriage, don’t you?”

Oh, bother. How had she not seen him? The voice washed over her like a delightful cascade of warm water in a bath.

Would he always have that effect on her? Surely it would fade at some point.

But it hadn’t.

Not for years.

Not since the first time she met him and he was introduced to her as the brother of Pierre’s fiancée. And that’s how he had always treated her since that first day, how he would no doubt always treat her; as if he were her brother. She had been an awkward girl of thirteen, too tall but not too pretty (at least in her own mind) and he a lithe no longer a boy but not quite a man of eighteen. Now, all these years later, he still possessed that boyish charm that had left her giddy on the first day, she who was far too sensible for anything of that nature. He wasn’t like the other boys his age: boys who were educated but stupid, boys who had material advantage but were intellectual paupers. He was perceptive enough to almost immediately recognize that she wasn’t like the other girls her age, girls who were brought up with the single aspiration of making a good match and were conditioned to appear as simpletons. She was educated; their mother had seen to that issue, bringing in the best tutors and governess that their money could procure. Tom would never forget the first time he heard her arguing with her governess in Latin or the first time she settled a dispute between him and Pierre by correctly quoting the passage from Moore’s Utopia that neither of them could quite get right.

At the sound of his voice, she let a wide smile spread across her face, putting on the usual mask that she had learned to employ the last few years when he was around. She started putting it on when she realized that he was eventually going to be married one day and since it most definitely wouldn’t be to her, she told herself it was time to stop dreaming.

“You would be of all men most fortunate, as I am quite a prize or so my financial advisor informs me. How soon would you like to meet with him?”

His laugh. It was almost as devastating as the voice.

The formal eveningwear made him look even more handsome than usual, the abundant candlelight glowing off his dark blond curls. Lowering his tall lean body down to the soft cushions and sitting beside her, he reached over and plucked the lacy fan from her hand and began to wave it with exaggerated vigor.

“It is infernally warm in here. Did your brother have to invite every person in London?”

“I don’t know,” she half scowled, yanking the fan back and smacking his hand with it, “you’ll have to make inquiries with your sister.”

Those intoxicating blue eyes widened at her actions and a smile flashed across his face before an amused frown replaced it.

“Is this the manner in which you intend to treat your husband? With such violent and disrespectful tendencies? Regardless of the size of your fortune, it would by no means outweigh such treatment.”

He brought up a hand to his heart and his eyes narrowed. “Even I, longsuffering though I am and previously accustomed to your stubbornness, would be forced to take you in hand.”

She’d never heard that particular tone in his voice. The insufferable flirt. Why did he have to tease her like this? It made everything so much worse.

“I spoke in jest, dearest Tommy,” she replied, leaning down to slip on her shoes. “I retract my offer for you to meet with my financial advisor. This prize will remain on the shelf so as not to be marred by your soiled hands.”

It was meant as a joke. Wasn’t it? There was that broken engagement, the circumstances that she never could quite get a satisfactory answer about. There had always been rumors of his involvement with women, although she had never seen him treat a lady with anything less than complete consideration and gentleness. Except with her. With her, the gentleness was still there, but it was colored with that familiar ease, as if he could do and say anything and wasn’t worried about following social custom. She liked that. Didn’t she?

These confusing questions were suddenly swirling in her mind; but they were quieted when she looked up and saw his face.

He looked hurt.

Hurt?

No, not just hurt.

Wounded.

Terribly wounded.

Her mouth fell open in surprise and embarrassment.

“Tom, I-“

He moved with such grace and speed, she almost didn’t even see it. Slender fingers were pressed lightly to her lips and she was silenced before she could finish the sentence.

Her heart began to pound wildly when he leaned forward and his eyes narrowed as they focused on the place where his skin was touching hers. Her lips were slightly parted and he felt the warmth of her breath pass through them and brush his fingers. The dance had ended and for a few seconds, the room was almost quiet as the music stopped.

His index finger traced the plump softness of her top lip as the pad of his thumb was drawn slowly along the line of her jaw, his own lips nearly pursed together and his face filled with something that was akin to fevered concentration. His other hand was caressing one of her elbows, right above where her long white glove ended.

Someone was going to see them. Someone was going to see him touching her like this. At a ball. In public. In her brother’s home.

And she didn’t care.

Neither did he, apparently, because he turned his hand and his knuckles were softly sweeping across her cheek.

He seemed to come to himself when he finally lifted his gaze from her lips. The intensity that was in his eyes made her gasp. She was horrified to hear herself whimper at the loss of contact when his hand fell from her face just as the next dance began. He abruptly rose from the settee. The terrible coldness in his tone brought tears to her eyes, although he was speaking low and his face was neutral.

“Forgive me for putting my unworthy soiled hands on such a prize. It won’t happen again.”

He bowed with characteristic grace and then turned and walked away, leaving her on the settee, alone…and unclaimed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

He would never understand how this woman managed to make him feel so inadequate. Always smarter, always wittier, always leaving him feeling unsure of himself, like the 18 year old gangly young man he had been when he first met her. She was the only woman he knew who could argue about current affairs. She was the only woman he knew who could cause such frustration in him whenever they found themselves in one of their little disagreements about which of Shakespeare’s histories was the most well-written, since her calm manner of speaking and rational argumentation always seemed to win over his impassioned speeches. She was the only woman he knew who could then immediately quench his ire and leave him baffled by the effect of her soft voice and smiles.

He would never understand how, over the years, she had transitioned into the copper-haired beauty who most occupied his thoughts, who made him yearn for a home that was pealing with the cries and laughter of children, for a room that was strewn with her clothes and smelled of her perfume, for a bed with tangled linens that was a shared whispered-filled refuge from the uncertainties of life.

Those desires seemed to grow stronger with each passing year, although it became more clear to him that she had absolutely no interest in marriage to anyone, least of all him. How many times had he witnessed her, whether in direct address to him personally or as part of something he overheard, make such comments about the fact that life had so graciously granted her with a near perfect situation of fortune and consequence? He knew she wasn’t a bitter or unhappy person; on the contrary, she was one of the happiest and most positive people he had ever known. She had a singular talent for taking situations that would overwhelm or discourage most people and turning them into something that was profitable, sometimes even enjoyable. He’d learned that this was an inherited characteristic from her mother, although Pierre was much less optimistic than his sister.

Pierre, his friend. Pierre, the brother that blood hadn’t granted him, but friendship had. When his interest in Madeleine was growing and he considered asking Pierre if he could court her, fear of damaging that friendship had kept him silent. He had observed how such situations could have a permanent detrimental effect on the relationship between men; with the added complication that Pierre was in fact his brother in law, it seemed even more unwise to jeopardize that relationship.

He attempted to forget her. He did. He was even foolish enough to think himself capable of living out his days with another, one who was eager and willing and appeared to think of him with a manner of affection that Madeleine never would. He was to Madeleine as he was to Pierre, a brother. To Lucie, he had been a suitor, a suitor who was welcomed with open arms and smiles. But she saw within a few months that he was suitor with a displaced heart, a heart that was left in England when he had departed his native shores for France. She was much like Madeleine in that regard, perceptive although not as lively or intelligent. He was grateful that she had enough self-respect to break their engagement and would forever berate himself after that he had considered putting a woman in that type of marriage, even if it was a common practice. Perhaps it would most haunt him because he knew what Madeleine would think of such a marriage, having been brought up by forward thinking parents who were not supportive of those arrangements. He managed to keep the details from being widely known, the main advantage being that it had all occurred abroad within a few months. Pierre had never pressed him for the specifics of the situation and had quieted his wife’s questions about it. Julia wasn’t easily persuaded to do so and still brought up the subject periodically.

Her face was pinched into a frown when she saw her brother storming out of the ballroom. This was her oldest child’s debut and she was determined that it would be a success. She was relying on her brother and her husband to ensure the most desirable outcome, needing their keen and watchful eyes to observe the proceedings. Tom exited through the double doors into the gallery and she sighed heavily, wondering what had occurred to bring on what appeared to be one of those fleeting emotional fits to which he was prone. He had learned how to deal with them more effectively as the years went by. Madeleine had been an immense help in that regard. Julia loved her brother, but he had always felt slightly out of reach to her; she never could quite understand or find the most effective way of interacting with him. For Madeleine, this seemed like second nature. He always appeared to be comfortable with her, as if her presence had some kind of intangible calming effect. She was able to temper him, to soothe him, just as she did with her nieces and nephews. Julia came to the conclusion years ago that this due to the natural gifts inherent in Madeleine’s personality and also because he felt an intellectual connection with her. She knew that her sister-in-law was quite superior to herself in that arena; indeed, she was the most educated and curious woman that Julia had ever met. Had Madeleine been at all haughty or condescending Julia would have found it nearly impossible to be in her company; but she learned very quickly that Madeleine was of a bright and sociable nature. She never failed to make those in her company feel comfortable, regardless of their level of mental acuity.

Madeleine, that was it. She could have Madeleine go soothe the beast and bring him back to the ball. Julia’s eyes scanned the room, grateful that Madeleine’s flaming tresses made her easily identifiable in a crowd. But among the whirl of colors and dancers, Madeleine was nowhere to be seen. Surely she wouldn’t abandon the party as well!

Julia caught sight of her daughter, her flushed face smiling up at her dancing partner as she bowed at the end of the dance. Cassie noticed the slight movement of mother’s fan, an indication that she wanted to speak with her. She gave her partner one last smile and floated over to Julia.

“Oh, mama, such delight! Thank you!” Her lips brushed lightly over Julia’s cheek.

“Yes, my dear, to be sure. But where is your aunt? My brother has removed himself from the party and I thought perhaps Madeleine could employ her usual tactics to smooth his feathers.”

Cassie’s face transitioned from a smile to a frown.

“I was certain I saw them speaking just now over on her favorite settee. Perhaps they’ve have had one of their disagreements about the Prime Minister again?”

Julia sighed in disapproval, thinking as she often did that perhaps her husband was being a little too indulgent with his sister. Since their mother Nicole had died, Pierre had become Madeleine’s only direct family member. Nicole had made Pierre promise that he would see to Madeleine’s happiness, that he wouldn’t force her to marry, that her natural intellectual curiosity would not be discouraged. Julia was a woman who found great contentment in the marriage state and simply did not understand why all women would not desire the same thing, although she knew she was fortunate to have a loving husband in Pierre and that a similar situation was not a guarantee for any woman.

“Mama, do not fret,” Cassandra assured her, “I will find my uncle and return him here. He owes me a dance.”

Cassie was blessed with more than her share of the energy and vitality that was the hallmark of girls her age, when life was blossoming with possibilities for the future. Her inclination to prefer the latest novel rather than making over a new hat often worried Julia, but she was such a social likeable creature and possessed the strong desire to please those who loved her best that she was easily persuaded into what her mother felt were the more appropriate activities for a young girl who hoped to marry.

She found her uncle sitting in the library, a volume of Shakespeare held loosely in his big hands, the hands that had tossed her up in the air as a child and the hands that had wiped away her tears when she was silly enough to think herself in love with that boy she had seen in the park last summer. But his eyes were not directed at the text in those hands. They were narrowed slightly and focused on something in the distance, as if he was looking through the shared wall with the ballroom.

“Uncle, all of the ladies are bemoaning the sudden absence of the most prodigiously handsome gentleman among the company. You owe me a dance. Shall we return together and make them all pea green with envy?”

The strange mix of sadness and anger that filled both his voice and his face was shocking to her.

“I doubt any of them would want to my soiled hands on their fine silks, my sweet niece.”

The way he nearly spat out the words “soiled hands” was also strange.

She frowned, suddenly wishing that she followed her mother’s idea of having Madeleine speak to him.

“What is it? Has something happened?”

He closed the book and let it drop on his lap, leaning back into the high chair and closing his eyes. When he spoke again, the anger had vanished, although the sadness remained.

“I told you that you were mistaken, Cassie. Your aunt would marry Bonaparte before she’d consider me.”

She sat down in the chair opposite his and her shoulders drooped.

“What did you say to her? What did she say to you?”

Long slender fingers came up to rub his temples and he sighed.

“Nothing that bears repeating,” he muttered.

Cassie let out a huff and began to worry at her bottom lip.

“Uncle, are you certain that perhaps you simply caught her at a bad time…. You know she isn’t disposed to be at her best for these large gatherings and –“

He abruptly stood and walked over to the mantle, pressing his palms against the edge with quite a bit of force and enjoying the tingling sensation of pain; it distracted him, albeit momentarily, from the tingling sensation of pain around his heart.

“No, Cassie,” he softly answered, willing himself to let his affection for his niece outweigh his disgust with himself for having been willing to listen to her, to hope that she was correct when she began to tell him weeks ago that she believed Madeleine to be in love with him.

“I know you meant well and at your age, you see love everywhere. But –“

Now it was her turn to bristle and interrupt him.

“Please don’t discount me because of my age. I’ve watched you two my entire life. I already told you, I was six years old before I realized that you weren’t actually married. You’ve attempted to explain to me why you think she isn’t interested in marriage, but I simply cannot believe that. She would accept you, I am certain of it.”

Something flickered in his bright blue eyes, something like desperation, and they widened when a previously unconsidered thought danced through his mind.

“Cassandra, have you spoken to her directly about this? Have you asked her? Have you told her that I…that I…”

He seemed unable to actually say the words. They were lodged inside of him, the urge to give them breath and offer them to Madeleine having been repressed for so many years that they were near petrification.

A rush of compassion filled her and she sprang from her chair to fling her arms around him.

“Have I told her that you are utterly besotted by her, as Abelard was by Heloise, as-“

He hastily stopped her before she could list other famous lovers that captivated her romantic heart.

“Have you?”

She leaned away from him and began to straighten his cravat.

“Uncle, of course I haven’t. I came to you, not her. You know that I love both of you a great deal and I would never be able to choose between you; but I came to you because I knew you wouldn’t tell me to keep my pretty little nose out of matters that do not concern me, which is what my aunt would have done.”

That brought a hint of a smile to his face and she reached up to kiss his pale cheek, although it quickly faded and that desperate look returned to his eyes. His hands were lightly gripping her shoulders.

“Promise me that you won’t. I couldn’t bear it if the knowledge of my…affection caused her distress or to withdraw or made her feel that she could no longer be in my presence. Promise me, Cassandra.”

“I promise.”

He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. She took his hand and smiled at him.

“You owe me a dance, uncle. You wouldn’t want to leave me heartsick on such a momentous occasion, would you?”

No, my sweet niece, he silently thought to himself. I’m heartsick enough for the both of us.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

As he stormed out of the ballroom, Madeleine fell back against the cushions of the settee as the sense of self-reproach settled around her like a heavy winter cloak.

How could she have been so rude, so ill-mannered. Was familiarity breeding contempt? She suddenly remembered the first time they had read that phrase together, when she had challenged him to read some Chaucer one summer. He had nearly thrown the volume across the room in disgust, or was it embarrassment, when she began to giggle over his stumbling through the verse and pronunciation.

_“We can’t all achieve your level of literary and linguistic perfection, Madeleine,” he mumbled, his cheeks flushing as his hands clenched around the pages. Those beautiful blue eyes were a sky of storm clouds and she’d had to employ her usual methods of calming his ire, coaxing him into remaining in the room and keeping the slender volume from being torn asunder. “Here, Tom, I’ll help you,” placing a hand on his shoulder and feeling him relax. “Go back to this line…”_

Contempt? No, no. She shook her head. It couldn’t be that. She could never hold him in contempt. If it were that simple, then her heart would be free of his grip and she could pass through a day without constant thoughts of him.

The expression on his face at her cruel words was imprinted on her mind. Her knowledge of his temperament and the logical assumption that he would be brooding in the library instead of mingling with the guests compelled her to slip on her shoes and rise from the settee. Apologize. That was what she must do. He always listened to her. The idea of a rift between them, the idea that she could or had possibly caused lasting damage to their relationship was unbearable. She’d spent considerable energy instructing her nieces and nephews that allowing unkind words to fester in someone’s heart was not acceptable when one had the power to repair what had been damaged. The wisest course of action was usually to respond sooner rather than later.

She moved quickly across the perimeter of the room and was just about to slip through the doors when Mr.Kingston cornered her. He was a recent addition to her brother’s social circle, having been away for many years seeing to his family’s plantation in the West Indies. There had been some murmuring that his woeful management of the estate after his father’s death had resulted in a great financial loss, but Pierre had judged him as worthy company and so Madeleine accepted him as well. He was always eager to speak with her and she was his unwilling conversational captive for some minutes before she was able to make her excuses and exit the room. She had just stepped over the threshold, glancing backwards over her shoulder to be certain that Mr.Kingston wasn’t following her when she collided with a column.

“Oh, Aunt! Are you hurt?”

It was Cassie’s voice. And it wasn’t a column. It was him. The force knocked her back and he immediately reached out to grasp her arms in order to keep her from falling. She wanted to cry when she raised her head and saw his expression, when he yanked his hands away from her as if she was burning his skin and murmured an apology.

“Forgive me, it seems I can’t keep my soiled hands from you.”

Cassie was looking at both of them curiously, first at her aunt and then to her uncle, before turning back to Madeleine and once again inquiring about her.

“Yes, thank you, niece, I am perfectly well,” she replied, glancing down to adjust her dress. “Your uncle’s physique is certainly one to be reckoned with.”

Cassie’s face lit up with a smile and she took Madeleine’s arm.

“I’ve informed him that he’s sent all of the ladies into swoons over his handsomeness, but you know how stubborn he is. It’s taken some persuasion to make return to the ball, although I am not half as skilled as you are on that score.”

Tom was picking invisible lint from his coat sleeve and frowning.

Madeleine took a deep breath and gave Cassie a kiss on the cheek.

“Yes, he is rather stubborn, but I’m afraid that can be explained in this particular situation. Cassie, may I-“

“Aunt, I think his mood would improve if you would be so gracious as to consent to a dance.”

Cassie was slyly attempting to transfer her aunt’s arm to her uncle’s hand when Madeleine jerked away.

“Cassie, I need to speak with your uncle. Would you excuse us for a minute or two?”

The young girl’s eyes flew to Tom’s and she seemed to be pleading with him about something. His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh and he motioned for Cassie to go on into the room without them. She smiled briefly and squeezed Madeleine’s hand before disappearing through the double doors. Tom swiftly moved to a set of chairs and stood, waiting for Madeleine to be seated first, but not looking her in the eye. Her courage faltered momentarily.

They’d had their brief moments of conflict over the years, as would be expected; but even then, those moments were usually about something political or literary, rarely ever about their personal relationship. Something was different this time, something that was causing previously unexperienced bubbles of fear to swirl around inside her. The intensity of the feeling was almost taking her breath away and she couldn’t seem to make herself move. He was behaving so formally, so stiffly, almost like a stranger. Had her words done this? Had a single comment altered him so significantly in a matter of minutes? She had seen him frustrated and angry over the years, although it never lasted long and it was almost rarely directed at her.

But this time…

This time she felt it. Felt it so keenly it was frightening her. It was a strange thing, the sensation of drifting in a troubled sea when one was on dry land. It wasn’t new to her, but it had been years since she felt it. It mostly came to her in dreams after her father had been lost at sea shortly after Pierre and Julia had married. The doctor told her that such events of sudden but short lasting physical distress were not uncommon for young women at certain times of the month. When it came to her during waking hours, it had been Tom whose sharp blue eyes noticed it, Tom who would take her hand and murmur to her until the waves were calm and she could think again. In those moments, the dynamic of their relationship had been reversed. In those moments, he was the comforter. She had managed to keep it mainly hidden from everyone, somehow finding a way to get through it when he wasn’t in close proximity.

But it had been years. The dreams and the fears had faded with time. Now the once all too familiar sensation of fear was taking over. Her heart was pounding, her throat dry, the noise from the ballroom seemed so distant. She was looking at him, wanting so desperately to reach for his hand as she hadn’t needed to in so long, longing for something to cling to while the cold salty curtains cascaded around her and the wind howled in her ears. But she couldn’t. She had spoken foolishly to him, insulted the very hands of her rescuer. He finally shifted his gaze to her face and something softened in his own.

“Madeleine.” His voice. She hadn’t heard that particular tone since the last time.

“Madeleine,” he repeated. The waves were getting smaller. “Your feet are planted firmly on the ground. Slow deep breaths, Maddy.”

She hadn’t heard that name since the last time. So long. It had been so long. The wind was calming. “Keep looking at my eyes. You aren’t drowning.”

An anchor. She needed an anchor. He wouldn’t deny her. Surely he wouldn’t. Wounded pride was a powerful motivator, but she trusted him; he wouldn’t reject her, not when this was happening again after so many years of lying dormant. She was about to raise an arm and reach for him when he spoke again, still using that low commanding tone that she couldn’t help but obey.

“Come, sit. You’re safe.”

How she ended up in the chair she would never be quite sure. She would also never be sure how he had procured a glass of water almost out of thin air, but it was gently pressed to lips and her hands clutched it. When she focused her eyes again, he was sitting in the twin chair and smiling at her.

“Solid ground, yes?” She hadn’t heard him ask that since the last time.

‘Yes” she whispered, letting the light from his eyes soothe the last tremors of alarm, the tingling in her limbs that was receding.

The first time he had helped her through it, she was certain that it would be a matter of derision in his mind. But he never teaser her about it, never made her feel as though her mind wasn’t secure. From the first day they had met, she observed him to be an expressive emotional creature in a way that her Pierre and, for that matter, most of the males around here were not. She had already become accustomed to his moods that bewildered his own sister. Indeed, he seemed almost relieved that he could be of some help to Madeleine in a similar manner to the way that she so often soothed him.

He cleared his throat and swallowed nervously.

“It’s been quite some time since…since…”

“Yes, thank you.”

He appeared to be slipping back into that stiffness from minutes ago and she rushed ahead, worried that the tension between which had been erased as he helped her through her fear would come rushing back.

“I’m sorry.”

His brows came together in a frown.

“You know you don’t have to apologize, I am quite aware that this has never been something you could control. You didn’t ask for it, I –“

“No,” she interrupted quietly, taking another sip from the glass, hoping that it would do more to help than simply quench her thirst.

“I mean to say…I’m sorry for the words I spoke earlier. They were foolish and meant in jest. They were not meant to…they were not meant to be insulting and they are certainly no indication of how I truly feel. You and I must never be enemies, Tom.”

He had almost imperceptibly begun to lean forward in the chair, his handsome features shifting back to that open boyish charm that had captured her heart so long ago. At her last words, he froze; he appeared to be waiting for her to continue. An altogether different wave of fear now crashed over her. He must be worried that she was going to say something he didn’t want to hear, something that would cause him great discomfort.

_You and I must always be friends, Tom. Aren’t we more than that? Aren’t we as intimate in our affections as a husband and wife are?_

She wanted to say those words. She couldn’t. It was obvious that he feared she would and that it would be the worst possible thing she could do.

“You and I must never be enemies, Tom,” she said again, “Will you forgive me, please? We are nearly brother and sister, aren’t we?”

A swift exhale of bated breath left his lungs and his hands moved to grip the arms of the chair, those long fingers curling around the embroidered upholstery. She wanted to weep again at his actions, ones that seemed to represent to her nothing other than immense relief.

“Yes, Madeleine.”

Madeleine.

Not “Maddy.”

It was the only time she had ever cringed at the sound of her name.

“I forgive you.”

The sound of laughter and music burst into the space around them as the doors opened and Cassie came rushing out.

“Papa says this is the last dance! Come, you must enjoy it together!”

Tom rose gracefully from his chair and intercepted Cassie’s hands before she could pull Madeleine from her seat.

“Your aunt is feeling rather tired and you and I have yet to dance.”

Smooth. So smooth. A perfectly veiled maneuvering away from her.

_He forgives you. But he’s rejected you. You finally have a definite answer. You finally know for sure. He would never think of you in that way. You are a sister. You’ll never be his prize._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine travels to her country estate with her favorite companion. Drama ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

London was delighted to be informed, although not a few knowing glances were exchanged in sitting rooms across the town, upon hearing the news, in the appropriate amount of time after the ball of the engagement of Cassandra to the eldest son and heir of An Old and Respected Family. Tom was immediately filled with happiness for his favorite, albeit his only, niece, and persuaded the more cautious Madeleine to join in the general approval of all those closest to the girl.

“They are rather young, you can’t deny that,” was the extent of her verbalized criticism, murmured for Tom’s ear alone as they went into dinner with the newly engaged Cassie nearly floating down the hall on the arm of her beaming fiance.

“Yes, they are,” he answered after a few moments’ deliberation, the carefulness of his speech not lost on her. “However, that fact does not inherently bar them from making an informed choice; indeed, the capability of youth for forming strong bonds should be celebrated in this case, rather than discouraged. It has proven to be a successful choice for Pierre and Julia, yes?”

Madeleine’s eyes left his and found her brother helping his wife into her seat at the right hand of the head of the table, a smile lighting Julia’s face when he placed a gentle kiss on her temple before realizing he had an audience. An unnecessary clearing of this throat inspired a stifled giggle and she looked back up at Tom, who was also fighting his own outburst of merriment.

“Yes, I suppose you are correct. I…I speak out of concern for Cassie, not out of doubt.”

“I am quite of your intention,” he assured her, “I do believe this is as great a chance of conjugal felicity for our niece as if she were 5 years older. All will be well, Maddy.”

He was using that address more, at least once a day now. It brought a rush of pleasure to her, one that she would try to hide from him by turning away swiftly or attributing it to the room being warm. A tremor of hope would leap in him and then a sharp remembrance of her words at the ball would put an end to it, along with the painful knowledge of the budding relationship he was witnessing between her and Mr.Kingston.

He was thrilled that she still confided him and felt secure to the extent that she could share her concerns about the engagement with him, having been worried that his behavior at the ball would perhaps eliminate the intimacy that they had shared for so many years. But she had proven him wrong and in a peculiar manner, her affection for him seemed to be even stronger than it ever had been. She sought him out for this or that throughout the day: a book, an opinion on the latest governmental happenings reported in the papers. Being loathe to question his interpretation of her actions, he simply decided to enjoy whatever time they had together and not let his mind ponder at too great length what the future might hold.

Although the subject had yet to surface between them, Tom was painfully aware that Mr.Kingston was presenting himself as a suitor to her. The gentleman’s visits to Pierre’s home in the weeks after the ball were obviously for one reason and one reason alone. The thought that Madeleine’s brightened spirits could be credited to the attentions of an honorable man, that she was perhaps considering him as a husband, pierced his heart and he commanded himself to dismiss all hope of a possible attachment. If she deemed Mr.Kingston to be worthy of her hand, he could do nothing else than support her, no matter the cost of his own relationship with her.

The day following the official announcement, the notion came into Madeleine’s head that great aunt Catherine’s wedding gown might be dismantled and some of the lace worked into Cassie’s own gown. She determined to set out to the estate that she had inherited from the aunt so that the feasibility of the idea could be ascertained. Pierre cautioned that the weather was prone to be frightful and he was unable to accompany to her due to obligations and appointments. In spite of his efforts to persuade her into a postponement of the endeavor, she remained stubborn in her goal.

“I’m quite capable of traveling on my own,” she told him with more than a hint of irritability.

Pierre knew that tone well enough from childhood to pause and consider whether or not this battle was worth fighting. Thankfully, Tom was passing by the door to his study and graciously offered his assistance, should Madeleine be in need of it; and so arrangements were made, a few necessities readied, and all was proceeding to her satisfaction.

“She’s like a dog with a bone, that one,” Pierre muttered to Tom when Madeleine exited the office, head held high with an air of gleeful triumph that was mirrored in the wink she gave Tom, one that he supposed would have been branded as unladylike by most people, but that had such a startling effect on him, he had to clench his hand into a fist as she sailed past him into the corridor in order to prevent himself from reaching out to that full curvy bottom of hers and –

“Heaven help the poor fool if he ever manages to convince her to accept him.”

Pierre’s pronouncement put an abrupt end to his thought and Tom interpreted it as referring to Mr.Kingston. What else could it mean? He couldn’t bear to enquire further and sighed in relief when one of the boys came crashing into the room on his stick toy horse, enlisting his uncle’s aid in defeating the “Fwench” at Agincourt.

Madeleine appeared quite satisfied with the result that he would be her companion. His deferring of his usual solo horseback mode of travel on journeys of the kind, choosing instead to join her in the carriage, brought her a nostalgic sense of excitement. She had always enjoyed traveling with him back and forth between London and the country; now the prospect of having his full attention for hours at a time, to discuss whatever she wished, was an unexpected gift.

Cassie’s dark eyes, so like her aunt’s, sparked with mischief when she heard of their scheme. She quickly quieted her brothers’ cries of request to their uncle regarding being included, as impassioned scenes of a declaration of love took the stage of her imagination.

“You must be alone so that…so that…” her voice broke off when Tom observed her with a shrewdness that caused her to decide that continuing this train of thought, at least aloud, was not wise.

“I thought I had your promise that such ideas were not to be –“

“Yes, yes, I know,” she rushed to interrupt him. “It was highly indecorous of me, uncle. Forgive me. Shall I go ask Cook to pack up some treats for the journey?”

She flittered from the room and he resolved, yet again, to keep his temper in check; it was impossible to erase the idea of a union with Madeleine from his niece’s mind. It was impossible to conceal his silent motive from her.

What would Madeleine say, he wondered as Cassie and his nephews showered her with kisses on their departure, if she knew that he was escorting her because he viewed it as perhaps his final opportunity to be alone with her, to be the sole recipient of her smiles and her conversation? Would she laugh and scoff at his confession? Was she going to want to talk to him about Mr.Kingston, using the situation as a means of private conversation about the subject?

His fears proved to be unwarranted as the hours passed. A basket furnished with a volume of new poetry and the day’s Times kept them occupied until they stopped for a meal and their animated exchange over a particular stanza in the third poem of the collection saw them into the evening.

Pierre’s warning about the weather, however, did prove warranted; a heavy rain had begun almost immediately upon their leaving London and progressed into a full blown storm that obscured the stars as the sun gave way to the moon. It slowed their pace to well below normal and he was beginning to worry for their driver. Although they were both dressed appropriately and had a blanket for warmth, he noticed that Madeleine appeared to be shivering slightly. When her eyes were fluttering closed and drowsiness was setting in, he moved to her side of the coach and gently maneuvered her down the bench so that he could sit beside her.

“You’re cold, darling,” he commented when her eyes flew open, not stopping to mentally berate himself for letting the endearment slip. She half-heartedly began an attempt to protest at the feel of his strong hands pulling her close to his tall form, but he wouldn’t allow it, the priority of her welfare making him bold.

“Hush, go to sleep,” spoken in a tone that made her shiver from something other than the chill. She blinked sleepily a few times and was meekly silent as he further arranged her and covered her with the blanket, turning her so that she was almost draped over him at his side and his arm was securely around her. A long sigh preceded the tentative resting of her cheek against his shoulder.

They had always been comfortable in physical expressions of affection, but oh, how different this was! As sleep overtook her, she snuggled still closer to him, a hand sneaking out from under the blanket to slip between the emerald brocade waistcoat and the silky lining of his jacket. A childlike, almost cooing hum accompanied the rubbing of her palm on the textured fabric, a sound that caused him to almost regret putting himself in this position. Almost.

But now she was so warm, so wonderfully relaxed against him, so close. He recognized the movement of her hand as a self-soothing gesture. Whenever she was nervous or tired, her palm would find something to rub, most often simply whatever was in reach: the soft muslin of her gown or the upholstery on the arm of a chair (the worn spots on her favorite settee were proof of that) . The eventual cessation of the motion coincided with an adjustment of her head and she angled her face upwards so that he could feel her soft breath on his skin, along the meeting place where the loosened cravat exposed his neck. That delicious sensation, along with the sweet scent that was clinging to her hair, caused him to once again almost regret his choice. Almost.

This is the only time, he thought, the only time she’ll be all mine.

He could no longer ignore the questions and thoughts that filled so much of his waking hours for months - nay, years. Having her in his arms like this forced him to face them.

What would a life with her be like? How would it feel to be her support, her champion, her companion? How would it feel to be so trusted, so relied upon, so needed? How would it feel to kiss her, to explore her, to love her? Would she laugh with him when his urgent hands fumbled at her laces? Would she cry out in her pleasure? He wanted to fall asleep with the taste of her on his lips and the knowledge that she would still be wrapped in his embrace when they awakened.

He had resigned himself to a sleepless night of this intoxicating torture and resulting discomfort when a sharp crack of lightning made him tighten his grip on her and a terrible lurch sent them both flying to the other side of the dark coach. It happened so quickly, a matter of mere seconds, and he acted on reflex, turning and bracing himself to take the impact with one thought in his mind.

Protecting the sleeping prize in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madeleine and Tom deal with an unexpected event on the way to her country estate. Angst ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

__

_Madeleine._

_Protect Madeleine._

He blinked a few times, as if the action would provide clarity to his mind and light into the darkened coach. The sound of the horses and Wilcox exclaiming filled his ears, a sound that he hoped was of surprise rather than pain.

Pain.

_Madeleine._

Protect Madeleine.

She was still in his arms.

The darkness prevented him from an immediate visual assessment of her. Considering the circumstances, he gave himself permission to ignore any sense of propriety.

_Please._

_Please let her be alive._

_Please let her be unharmed._

A terrible dread seized him at the idea of her –

_No._

_No._

His hands moved to check her, to feel her pulse and be sure that she was breathing.

He had to grit his teeth when an attempt at shifting his position sent pain shooting through his shoulder that had absorbed the brunt of the impact when they’d been thrown across the coach.

Time seemed to take on a slowed pace. The only thought in his mind was her. His fingertips pressed into the warm silky skin of her neck, confirming a steady beating of her heart. They then moved with haste to her mouth, her nose, her eyes. Her breathing was a bit shallow, but he couldn’t feel any blood or injury to her face. A quick inventory of her limbs found them all intact.

Using his other arm, he learned forward and levered her away from his body upon being satisfied that it appeared safe to move her, trying to prop her upright.

“Wake up, darling. Wake up.”

There was no response and his fear increased, a fear of something that he had never considered until these moments.

“Maddy, please,” he urged, startled by how still she was and by the rough, broken pleading of his own voice.

He couldn’t live without her.

Perhaps it was merely a minute or two that went by, but it was an eternity for him. An eternity of sheer terror as he attempted to rouse her. He cupped her face and pressed his cheek to hers, one word being repeated over and over and over.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

His lips brushed across her forehead and he felt dampness, not understanding that it was from his own tears.

A thousand prayers left his mouth, all in that one word.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

A tremendous cry of relief left him when finally, finally a soft moan escaped her lips and her eyes fluttered open.

“Madeleine, darling. Thank God, you’re still here with me.”

_Don’t ever leave me, please._

He was not quite sure how the next hour or so went by so quickly. Strange that everything in that very second could seem so keen, yet the minutes went by at such a pace that he almost thought he must be dreaming. Something took over, something that came from the core instinct of humanity – survival. And something else was forever altered in his perception of reality. He now understood fear in its most elemental state. It wasn’t fear for his own life. It was far more terrifying than that. It was fear for hers. Fear that she might be taken from this realm. That fear was above anything he had experienced, beyond the shadowy fears of childhood, beyond the selfish fears of youth. This was a grown fear, a nearly physical pain felt with every exhale of his lungs.

He managed to wrench open the door of the carriage with Wilcox’s aide on the outside. The rain had ceased almost entirely and the clouds cleared just enough to provide them with light that assisted in an assessment of the damage. The storm had caused a wheel to loosen and a rut in the road provided the final impetus of its liberation. A short conversation led to Wilcox mounting one of the horses to ride to the small village where they normally took a meal on the journey to the estate. He returned within the hour in a rented coach.

Tom sat with Madeleine in the darkness, the throbbing in his shoulder of little consequence at the present time. All that mattered was her. She was unharmed, save for the general temporary aches from the impact of the crash. They were both unusually quiet while they waited for Wilcox. She was calm, so calm. He was concerned that she might be overcome by one of her unbidden panicked states, but she was not. On the contrary, she appeared almost serene despite the severity of the situation.

She did not resist in any way when he took his great coat and put it on her, adding another layer to her own garments and the blanket. She did not resist in any way when he pulled her close and murmured that she needed to be kept warm. She did not resist in any way when he wrapped his good arm snugly around her.

He hoped she couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. He hoped she couldn’t feel the terror that had yet to abate. He hoped she couldn’t sense that he…that he…

That he what?

Loved her?

Desired her?

Needed her?

And then he found himself in a room at the inn, standing in front of the door that joined her room to his. He had forced himself to let go of her when Wilcox arrived. What excuse did he have at that point? The immediate danger had passed. He had forced himself not to gather her into his arm again in the fresh carriage, not to hold her to his side as they entered the inn, not to insist that they share a room.

He lifted his left hand, the other all but unusable due to his injury, and placed it flat against the wooden door. It was smooth from time and wear. He ran his palm down the grain, remembering the texture of the fabric of her cloak while she rested against him before the accident. The scent of her clung to his own clothes. He took a deep breath. It still hurt. But how sweet. Oh, so sweet.

He pressed his ear to the wood. She was moving about the room, opening her trunk and readying for the night, humming her favorite lullaby, the one she always sang to their nieces and nephews.

What would she do if he opened the door, swept into the room, and declared himself?

What would she say?

Would she laugh?

Would she think he was jesting?

Would she ruffle his hair and call him “Tommy” and push him away and huff at him and tell him to save his flattery for someone who cared?

Rejection.

She might reject him.

She might never be able to look at him again with affection.

Could he risk that?

Could he risk losing what the years had given them, what they had built together?

The fear clamored over him anew.

No.

He couldn’t.

He had to.

He thought of her laughing at him again.

He couldn’t.

But what Pierre had said…

What if that man were to ask for her hand.

What if…

The argument in his mind and heart was halted when the door was flung open and she appeared in front of him.

Her hair was loose, hanging in soft waves that reached beyond her waist. She was clad in a snow white nightgown and wrapper, with frothy lace at her wrists and neck. The generous fire in the room had brought a flush to her cheeks and shone around her like a light from Heaven.

He blinked and stepped back, stunned by the sudden sight of her.

And like that.

She was covered, but it was like he was seeing her bare.

She smiled at him.

Madeleine.

His Madeleine.

She had to be his Madeleine.

“You always were the loudest mouth breather I’ve ever heard. And you wonder why my sister insists on putting you in the room farthest away from the others when you stay with them.”

He couldn’t live without her teasing.

He couldn’t live knowing that she might be treating another man in the same way.

Or a more intimate way.

“If you needed help shaving you could have simply asked instead of growling at the door like a ill-tempered hound.”

He’d never seen her like this. Not once. Not in all the years they had been in the same house, not as children or adults. Of course he had imagined it. He’d imagined far beyond this. But to actually witness it, it shocked him. It was beyond all sense of decorum.

She knew about his odd trait of shaving twice a day. Although his hair was fair, he had a darker beard and by the end of a long day, it was noticeable. He also did not care for the sensation of the roughness, especially when he laid his head down on the pillow at night, and had taken to the habit of shaving before he retired. The warm water and ritual of the actual was comforting.

“Wasn’t it so fortunate that a doctor is here at the inn because of the storm? I’m glad that he was able to treat your shoulder. Shame it’s the right and not the left, but you’ll find a way to manage. I can help you tonight and I’m sure one of the servants at the hall would be thrilled to play valet to you for a day or two.”

She was moving around the room as though it were her own, opening his small bag and removing the kit, checking the stand by the fire to see if there was a pitcher of fresh water, chattering about this and that as if this were all perfectly normal and they hadn’t narrowly escaped what could have been a -

Should he say something? Should he tell her to leave?

He’d never had so many questions in his life.

She was going to do this for him?

That meant being close to him.

That meant putting her hands on him.

In a way that a lover would.

“Are you going to sit down,” she asked, voice tinged with amusement, “or do I need to stand on a stool to do this?”

It occurred to him that he hadn’t uttered a word since she’d opened the door. An attempt at speaking died before he could even open his mouth. He tore his eyes from her, from the angel that was invading his room and his heart, looking around for a chair.

“Oh, Tom, I’m sorry,” spoken in a different tone, not of teasing but of penitence, “let me do it. You’re hurt.”

The doctor had worked with speed and efficiency to treat his injury. His shoulder had to be forced back into alignment. He’d refused to take the laudanum, only giving in to the wine in its place when Madeleine had looked up at him with entreaty and brought the glass to his lips. A whispered “For me” preceded the second cup, the slight trembling in her hand as it grasped his alerting him to the fact that she was distressed over seeing him in pain, although he had done his best to conceal it from her during the ordeal.

That must be it.

That was the explanation.

He was drunk.

It was altering his ability to think, to function.

Perhaps he was in fact dreaming all of this.

But the hands that led him to the chair and gently pushed him down were real, so real. And warm. So warm. He felt the warmth through the linen of his shirt. The doctor had removed his jacket and waistcoat prior to placing his arm in the sling, leaving him only in his shirt and cravat.

The cravat.

Shaving.

He gave a little shake of his head and tried to clear his mind, from the wine or the subsiding pain or the giddy anticipation of what she intended to do, he wasn’t sure.

The cravat would have to be removed. Without giving thought to his limitations, he lifted his hands to do so and a jolt went through his arm up to his shoulder.

“No, you can’t,” a gentle rebuke, “Let me.”

In that moment, he gave in.

It might be the only time.

It might be the only time she would ever be this close to him.

It might be the only time he would ever see her like this.

It might be the only time she would ever tend to him with such care and tenderness.

It might be the only time he would ever feel her like this.

She leaned down and began the task of unknotting the silk. Her breath was soft, the sound steady and assuring. The loose waves of her hair cascaded around her and rested on the fabric of his thighs, the auburn shade so vivid against the light hue of his breeches. She was going about the task so nonchalantly, as if it were nothing, as if it were her habit; and he was struggling to keep his composure!

This was the sweetest torture. He had to close his eyes to protect himself from the image of her mere inches from his face, from the image of her plump pink lips and the tip of her tongue that darted out in thoughtful frustration as she dealt with the cravat. How desperately he wanted to taste that mouth!

“Remind me never to let you restrain me for any reason.”

_What?!_

“No matter how much the boys want to play victors and captives.”

He was gripping his knee so tightly to keep from putting his hand on her waist, his fingers were getting stiff.

“Where did you learn these knots, from a sailor?”

She was giggling, the childish giggle he adored, even when it was inspired at his own expense or frustration. It was a part of all his favorite memories. From the first day he had met her, she had laughed like that. He had missed it terribly when he was in France, when he was foolish enough to deceive himself that he could forget her. It was in vain. He couldn’t forget her. He couldn’t forget that laugh.

“There! Finally!” she proclaimed in triumph and pulled away the stubborn offender.

His jaw clenched involuntarily when her fingers lightly fanned around his neck for a second or two before she turned swiftly to make the lather. Daring to open his eyes, he watched as she proceeded to do such a simple task that he had done for himself hundreds of times, but that this time was both pleasure and agony. Because he knew what was going to happen next. She was going to be there again, close to him again, hands on him again. He was already fighting to keep his body under control, but he knew it was a losing battle. There would be no way of hiding it from her. His eyes caught the stack of faded but clean and neatly folded linens next to the wash stand. If he could procure something to -

“Does the lavender oil go in the lather or just on that chiseled face of yours after?”

He looked back to her and almost gasped aloud.

She’d taken off her wrapper, having grown tired of repeatedly pushing up the lace cuffs while she made the lather, and the nightgown was rendered practically transparent from her position in front of the fire. The curves of her hips and legs were clearly visible under the thin white muslin.

He wasn’t going to survive this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morning After, Arrival at the estate...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

__

_Concentrate, you fool._

He focused on the distant sound of the wind whipping around the inn, the periodic muffled footfall of servants and guests in the passageway, the sharp snapping of the fire. Anything in an attempt to somehow separate himself from the soft rustling of her nightgown, the smooth scraping of the blade against his whiskers, the melody of her voice and giggles as she related the latest practical joke the boys had planned for Cassie and her fiancé.

He was grateful that she had carefully placed her wrapper across his thighs after taking a short look at the ancient hat rack and hooks on the wall and deciding that she didn’t trust their strength. She kept adjusting the angle of his head as she began shaving him, her warm hands and the intoxicating scent of roses driving him wild. Unable to muster more than perfunctory “Mhms” as his part of the conversation, she chattered on as she went about the task and didn’t seem to be aware that he had barely said a word since she entered the room.

Through the fog of the accident, the aches in his shoulder and body, and the effect of the wine, his mind was a jumble of fear and hope. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but all he saw then was the image of her in the carriage, when he couldn’t rouse her, and the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him anew.

He would open his eyes and there she was, safe, in front of him, fingers splayed out on the side of his neck, one hand holding the razor, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling, her smile shining down on him like the first warm rays of spring. It was only a glimpse, he knew. A glimpse into what a life with her would be. This was exactly the type of common, everyday domestic scene that he had been imagining with greater frequency in the weeks since the ball. It was so familiar to him now. He would catch himself daydreaming about her a dozen times from sunrise to sunset, each new cycle magnifying both his affection for her and his jealousy of Mr.Kingston. The latter was a new and uncomfortable sensation for him. In a strange way, he wished that he could consult her about it. No matter the problem, he could always rely on her calm judgment and rational way of thought. More and more he saw how her presence had a tempering effect on him, how he depended on her as a confidant.

She dipped a cloth into the hot water and wiped away the remnants of lather. A few drops of the lavender oil were shaken into her palm and she rubbed them together.

This time when he closed his eyes, there was no fear; he only felt her, her hands on his face, gently patting and massaging, thumbs making slow tantalizing circles over his cheekbones. It took every ounce of strength not to turn his head just so and lean forward to press his mouth to hers. The useless arm was a blessing in disguise he realized. It prevented him from doing something he might regret later. The nails on that hand were digging into his palm, the muscles tense from being tightened into a fist for so long. He was nearly shaking with the effort of controlling himself.

“There, now,” she proclaimed in satisfaction, stepping back to observe her work. “All smooth and ready for slumber.”

The loose muslin of her nightgown had become hitched under an arm and was pulled taut across her abdomen, cupping the globes of her breasts for a few seconds – the sight making his palms ache to support their weight- before she lifted her hands to push some strands of hair off his brow and the gown fell back into place. He should have looked away before then. He should have.

And then before he knew what she intended, she stooped and placing both hands on his curly head, tilted it forward, kissing his brow with the barest touch of her lips, and whispered “Thank you for saving me tonight, my hero.”

He dared to hope.

For a second.

His eyes flew open and met hers; and in that second, he thought he saw something. But it was the merest flash of an undiscernible kind and she spoke before he could give it a name.

“Although,” her voice returning to a regular level and taking on that teasing quality, “you’re probably going to be an insufferable braggart and act as though we were beset by highwaymen and you were forced to fend them off with your bare hands in order to do so. What a tale you will weave for the boys.”

She laughed again, tweaked his nose, and left the room in haste, leaving him frustrated and confused, with her wrapper still draped over his lap.

Bewilderment was added to his mental and emotional turmoil the next morning when she greeted him at breakfast as if nothing had happened the previous night. She was her usual self, pleasant to all around her and a delightful companion during the meal. During his fitful tossing in bed after she had shaved him, his imagination had run wild with thoughts of her and Mr.Kingston. He pictured her marrying the man, kissing him, sharing his bed. It was intolerable. Continuing in this way was not an option. He had to do something.

But what about her? What was she thinking? The possibility of rejection loomed over his visions of declaring himself and her welcoming him with open arms.

The doctor had been kind enough to stop by his room that morning and check on his shoulder. Before he departed, he assisted Tom with his waistcoat and cravat while he shared a prescription for any pain and recommended keeping the arm in a sling for several days. Tom was relieved for his help, thinking perhaps that Madeleine would appoint the business of dressing him to herself. He didn’t think he could make it through another ordeal like that. The thought drove him to consider riding the rest of the way to the estate on horseback, even with only one arm available.

She frowned at him when he mentioned it to her, her expression reminding him of the way his sister looked at her children on occasion.

“Of course you can’t do that, you’re a one winged sparrow right now, you silly man.”

He was forced to be resigned to another hour or two in a closed space with her and mentally braced himself for whatever might occur; however, his worries were in vain as she fell asleep within a few minutes of being seated in the carriage, which surprised him more than a little. Supposing that she would be somewhat hesitant, considering what had occurred the day before, he had made sure to enquire about her physical state, searching her face and eyes for any sign of fear. She was fine, she assured him, just anxious to be home for a day or two and then to return to London.

“And you?” she asked in a low tone as her brows knit together in concern, “Were you able to get some rest? Do you need anything for the pain?”

_No, you infuriating woman, I did not rest. And you are what I need for the pain. You. Your kisses would be the sweetest balm._

So many months had passed since he had been into Sussex with her that he had forgotten how much it suited her. In spite of how much she enjoyed being in town with her family during the season and her pleasure of what the bustling city offered in the way of amusements, there was a marked difference in her countenance when she was on her own estate. Left to her by an aunt who had never married and did not have an heir, it held many fond memories of childhood for her and she was thrilled to call it her own as an adult.

He loved seeing the change in her face when they crossed the last hill and the stately Elizabethan mansion appeared in the distance. Childish glee lit her and she invariably signaled the coachman to halt so that she could walk the last mile or so, as long as the weather permitted it. The fresh air and views were a balm to him as well and he joined her for the ramble. She stopped a few times to gather some early wildflowers and couldn’t help but place a blossom or two in her hair. While she loved the rainy days that gave her a reason to stay lounging about the library all day with her precious books and maps and letters, she equally loved the clear skies, basking in the sunshine like the old cats who had the run of the grounds.

Any tenants or servants who crossed her path as she approached were delighted to see her. Warm greetings were offered, inquiries made after the health of their respective families, all manner of sincere niceties were exchanged. He was full to the brim with a sense of pride in her: pride that she was so loved, pride that she was so respected, pride that the sight of her inspired such reactions. It was new and confusing. Why should he feel this way? He had no right to the sensation, yet he could not deny or ignore it. Different, so very different from the affection and admiration that he had carried for her over the years. Nothing about her had changed; the change was in him. The same vision was before him, but a veil had been lifted and he saw with absolute clarity for the first time.

She was so beautiful, so gay, so full of life and laughter that he again had to restrain himself from reaching for her. The urge was becoming as natural to him as breathing and over the last 24 hours, every repressed tendency that he’d been able to master for years was threatening to overpower him. He had to do something. No matter the risk. He couldn’t wait any longer. He would do it here, now, in this paradise of gardens that held flowers she tended and rooms that bore her fingerprints.

He knew her nature. There had never been occasion on which he had seen her display any kind of cruelty or disdain for another person’s feelings. The teasing nature he so loved never reigned in times of earnest entreaty from someone, most particularly from those she loved; regardless of their status or age, she was always consistent in the manner of compassionate response given to them. He would simply have to trust in that confidence, that she would listen to his avowal of his great regard for her with the same benevolence; and were she to return his affection in kind, he was convinced that they could face any opposition, familial or otherwise, united in hearts and minds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom continues to struggle with his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter written as an experiment in the Heaving Bosom/Bodice Ripper. Continued because readers liked it and I'm a sucker for praise. Usual historical romance nonsense and tropes will be included. Warning - I love novelas, so this is like historical romance on steroids. I am not a Historian, I am not spending hours researching this. There may be inaccuracies of the period and so forth. This is meant to be purely for entertainment. Make yourself a cup of tea and have fun.

The library was always the first place she went. It was her domain, her refuge, her kingdom. After time away, her heart would beat a little faster in anticipation as she made her way down the hall. Stepping over the threshold was to be transported. No matter the frustration of things great and small, no matter the pain of life and loss, she always found respite here. She walked through the room, sighing contentedly, her hands caressing the spines of her treasures, shelf by shelf, feeling the binding against her palms, the smooth edges of the lettering. Deep breaths filled her lungs, the scent of dust and memories and dried lavender relaxing her. A few favorites, for she had many, were picked up with reverence and pressed to her chest, embraced as a beloved. Among them were gifts from her parents and she traced her fingertips over the words they had left on the inside cover.

“I missed you,” she told them. And she heard them all respond in whispers, each page rustling softly in her ears, the cooing intimate words of a lover meant only for her.

She abandoned her slippers, letting her stockinged toes curl into the carpet, then gathered several more volumes in her arms and began to dance around the room in slow twirls and turns with her eyes closed. They were the perfect partners, her books. They never stepped on her toes, they never had sweaty hands, they never regarded her awkwardly. They were constant, they were comforting, they were companions.

Although she always brought a supply with her when she was in town, it was never enough; and it wasn’t simply the books themselves, it was this place, this room. This room with its old almost thread-bare scarlet upholstered furniture that the housekeeper, Mrs.Copplan, was always chiding her to replace. This room with the globe in its stand and her mother’s watercolors of birds on the walls. This room with its dark aged wood and tall mullioned windows. She moved to them and pressed her cheek against the cool glass. More deep breaths. This was home.

Tom stood at the threshold watching her, captivated. He’d never seen this before. She had left the door open this time and he convinced himself in a second that it was an invitation.

She was wearing a new gown with a pink flower pattern against white and it was a beautiful compliment to her hair. The sunlight streamed through the windows and she stopped for a moment, lifting her face to soak it up, eyes still closed, a smile illuminating her countenance in a way that the sun never could.  
He had taken a single step forward and caught himself before the second step interrupted her reverie. He wanted to take her hands and dance with her as she had done with their niece and nephews when they were children. He wanted to spin around with her until they were dizzy and breathless and laughing, until they collapsed onto the floor in a heap of her skirts. He wanted to take her flushed cheeks in his hands and feel her breath on his lips. He wanted to cradle her head and lay her down on the sun-warmed carpet and tell her a story she’d never heard while he wrote the words on every inch of her silky skin.

He struggled to give this a name and again found himself wanting to consult her about it. She would know. She would quote something in Latin from one of these books and smile at him and pat his shoulder and speak in her rational way and soothe him as she had for years.

But would she share it? Would she understand? Would she only look at him in confusion if he spoke so impassioned to her?

But her eyes opened and fixed on him with a look of pleasure, as if she had known the whole time that he was watching. As if she wanted him to watch. And even though he knew it seemed to be lacking in sense, seeing her like this was just as intimate as when she had been clad only in her nightgown at the inn.

He stuttered and had to clear his throat, informing her that Mrs.Copplan had tea ready to be served.

“Thank you, Tom.”

She placed her armful of books on the round table by the globe and looked around for her shoes.

“I’m famished. I’ve been anticipating some of Cook’s tarts for weeks.”

After tea.

He would do it after tea.

 _Yes,_ he told himself, _you will._

The last drop of his second cup was being drained when a servant entered the room with a request for Tom from the old gardener, Elton. Tom had always enjoyed being outdoors, especially interested in the talents of those who kept the grounds. Elton had a new variety of plant that he had been cultivating by the pond and was eager to share his success with Tom.

It was on the tip of tongue to suggest that he plan a meeting with Elton the next morning instead when Mrs.Copplan exclaimed “Yes, please, sir, go. The man won’t be satisfied until he has your approval and I can’t bear to hear him muttering over his stew tonight.”

Tom snuck a glance at Madeleine and saw that she was attempting to stifle a giggle. The ancient, or so it seemed, tension between the two faithful retainers was something of an ongoing source of amusement for the rest of the household. No one knew quite exactly how it originated.

Madeleine gave Tom a smile and mouthed “Go” as she brought the teacup up to her lips.

Reluctantly he arose and made his way to the flower garden and down to the pond. The weather was unusually fine, warm for so early in the spring, and he took his time, enjoying the eager young blooms that were already showing their faces for the season.

Elton was puffing on his pipe and seated on the weathered three-legged stool that he had taken to carting around the estate. He greeted Tom warmly and proceeded with great animation and speed to proudly show his handiwork.

“I suppose Mrs.Copplan made some kind of untoward comment about me before you left the room?” he asked with a feigned air of disinterest.

Tom smiled at the old man and decided to throw caution and decorum to the wind.

“What happened with you two? Why the animosity?”

Elton’s shoulders slumped in a heavy sigh and he turned to face Tom.

“Fear. Love. Mostly fear, I suppose.”

He answered matter-of-factly, honestly, with ease, giving Tom the impression that in uttering those few words, he was relieving himself of burdens that he had carried for far too long.

Keen eyes that were dimming, but not with wisdom, latched onto Tom’s, and he took another drag on his pipe. The smoke curled up into the air and a few puffy clouds temporarily shielded them from the bright sunshine.

“Don’t let fear win the fight, my boy. It will grow like weeds,” he motioned towards the flower garden with a gnarled hand, “and choke out the life that is battling to break through. A gardener can’t let the weeds go wild because he is afraid the seeds won’t bloom. Only a fool would do that.”

“Yes, of course,” Tom murmured, with full awareness that Elton’s words were indicative of what he wasn’t saying, that he saw a familiar struggle in Tom’s eyes.

“One fool amongst two men is enough,” Elton laughed, although it was tinged with regret.

“Life is very strange,” he continued, “We are taught that selfishness is wrong and surely it is; but we have to let ourselves be…be…”

His grayed eyebrows knit together in concentration as he searched for the words.

“Brave?” Tom offered.

“If we are convinced it could bring happiness, selfishly brave, in a way,” Elton nodded in agreement, “If that makes any sense.”

“I understand,” Tom answered, looking out across the garden back to the house.

The clouds moved on and the pond was again bathed in sunlight. Elton informed Tom of the plans he had drawn up for a new gazebo on the east side of the water and they had been chatting for quite a while when Tom noticed a carriage he didn’t recognize approaching the house. The east side of the pond afforded a glimpse of the drive some distance away. He thanked Elton and promised a complete surveyance of the estate in the morning before walking back through the flower garden, gathering a handful of lavender for Madeleine, and into the house.

He was curious as to whom the visitor might be, but he was also eager to speak with her before his courage was lost.

The voice that fell on his ears before he rounded the corner of the hall caused him to halt.

It was Mr.Kingston’s.

He was here.

In Madeleine’s home.

Her suitor.

His rival?

Was it too late?

The surge of jealousy that raced through him was so intense, he was nearly crushing the delicate stalks in his hand in reaction to the horrible idea that crossed his mind. Surely Mr.Kingston would make such a journey for one reason. He quickly turned and exited the house, stumbling slightly in his haste.

The walled garden.

It was the first place that came to mind.

He sat on the brick bench in the wall for an hour, the shadows of evening creeping in around him, as the events of the weeks since the ball played on the stage of his mind. He thought of how happy she had been about Cassie’s engagement, how happy she had seemed every time Mr.Kingston called on them. He thought of the accident, of his terror that she might be hurt or worse. And he thought of her waltzing into his room in the inn, closed his eyes and remembered the sweet agony of sitting still while her hands were on him, of the lace wrapper that she placed over his thighs, of the vision of her dancing with her books in the library mere hours ago.

Elton’s words came to him.

He heard the neighing of horses and the sound of wheels on gravel.

And he rose with purpose, with resolve, moving with long steady strides to claim the prize that he couldn’t bear seeing in another man’s arms.

Instead of going through the house, he walked around the perimeter to the front entrance and was greeted with the sight that made him hastily step back from view in alarm.

The sight of Madeleine embracing Mr.Kingston.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summary: AU Tom, set in early 19th c. London. Madeleine and Tom have known each other since they were teenagers (her brother is married to his sister). Can they overcome their fears and choose each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

“Tom!” she exclaimed upon seeing him enter the library, “Come see what Fred- uh, Mr.Kingston has brought me!”

His Christian name.

She had just caught herself using his Christian name.

And she was cradling an armful of new books.

That were from him.

Tom wanted to march over to her and tear them from her hands, throw them into the fire, wipe every trace of memory about that man from her mind. She was smiling, eyes dancing with excitement as they always did at receiving such gifts. The intimate way she referenced him, the present of the books, and the embrace… They could only mean one thing. It was too late.

“You can’t marry him.”

The smile disappeared at his words, words that were uttered as a command, words that sounded harsh and imperious. Words that he knew were wrong, but that he couldn’t stop.

“You can’t marry him,” he repeated with a nod and took another step towards her. He was horrified when she matched his step with a backwards one of her own and she drew the books to her chest, as if she read his mind and knew his intent and was trying to protect them. And herself. Her eyes were now flaring in alarm. She was looking at him as if he were a stranger.

“What?” asked in a tone rife with true confusion.

He said it a third time, hands clenched, the image of Mr.Kingston’s arms around her burned into his vision, the reality of his temporary physical limitations in reference to his slinged arm making him feel still more helpless.

_No!_

_Not my Madeleine!_

“I can’t?” she said as her brows furrowed.

He shook his head in affirmation of her question.

“I can’t allow it.”

The expression on her face was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Incredulity, indignation at his assertion; and rightly so, for it was the first time he had spoken to her in this manner.

“You can’t allow it?” she asked, stunned.

Their exchange at the ball rang through his memory.

“He is not the man who is worthy of you.”

All reason disappeared from his mind. The fear from the last couple of days was suddenly overtaking him again. Fear when he couldn’t rouse her after the accident, fear that she was injured or worse, this new fear that she would truly be lost to him forever.

“You have known him for such a short time. You do not know what you are doing. You are not in full possession of the facts.”

This was going all wrong. Terribly wrong.

He had imagined this scene so many times, for so many months now. He had imagined a lovely, mild evening exactly like this one. He had imagined them together in this house, where she was mistress and nothing would disturb them. In the perfect scenario, the best and most hoped for, he had imagined confessing his affection with the ardent wooing of a lover. He had imagined her flushed with surprise and pleasure at the sweetness of his address, not repulsion and anger at the arrogance of his accusations.

_Do something!_

_Say something!_

_Tell her the truth!_

“Madeleine, I –“

“The facts, Thomas,” she interrupted, spitting out his name as if it were the bitterest pill in her mouth, “are these. Firstly, this is my home and I will not be spoken to in such a manner, not by you or by anyone. Secondly, I am fully capable of making my own decisions without your approval. Lastly, the conceit you are revealing in this unprecedented display, as though you hold by natural right or my personal consent the power to dictate my choice of husband, is astonishing. How dare you, sir.”

Her voice was shaking by this time. He was paralyzed.

“Mr.Kingston is a good and honorable man, one who has never spoken to me with anything less than respect and the highest form of gentlemanlike decorum, with anything remotely resembling how you have just now spoken to me.”

He wanted to shake himself from this sudden nightmare. He wanted to turn back the hands of the clock for these last few minutes and start afresh without stubborn masculine pride and stupidity.

“Not even my brother would do as you have done.”

She spoke now with a dreadful sadness, all anger had abated as swiftly as it had sprung.

_Madeleine. no. My darling Maddy, no. No, this isn’t how it should be. Please, let me explain._

But she closed her eyes and turned away from him, not seeing that he found the will to move and was reaching for her, silently pleading for her forbearance and forgiveness.

“You have insulted me, you have insulted the affectionate acquaintance between us in the most offensive manner. Please leave.”

_Oh, no. No, don’t send me away._

“I can not bear to be in the presence of someone who has carelessly trod upon a friendship of so many years.”

_Friendship._

_That is all this was._

_That is all it will ever be now._

“If you have any part of the gentleman remaining in you from that time, please do as I wish and leave.”

_You are a blundering fool and you have destroyed your chance. Don’t cause her further pain._

He forced himself to obey, to leave her in a state of bewilderment and self-reproach. How had this happened. How had he let this happen.

In mere minutes he had laid waste to every noble intention and hope for a future with her. How could he possibly repair what he had destroyed in those minutes. With only a few words spoken in pride, fear, and jealousy. Words that should have been spoken in love, honesty, and respect.

He exited the library, bumping into the doorframe in his haste, sending pain shooting up his arm into his shoulder. He strode down the hall and into her other favorite room on the first level. It was dark and he stumbled to the tall mullioned windows and pulled back the drapes to let in the first rays of moonlight. They fell on her mother’s harp and the pianoforte where he had sat with Madeleine and she had taught him to play. He had taken to it quite naturally, surpassing her own skill in a very short amount of time. He lifted his good hand to the keys. They caressed the smooth ivory for a moment while he attempted to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Playing always soothed him.

He composed his own music when was alone. She was the only one who knew among his family.

And now…

Now she would never know that it was all for her. He would never be able to tell her that every note bore her name. The tune that his fingers began was one she had not heard. It had only been heard by another. By the one he thought could replace her.

He had not played it since that night. That terrible night when she had turned away from him, as Madeleine had done, and quietly asked him to leave.

As Madeleine had done. He did not think he would play it again. But it came unbidden, rushing through his mind and out of his hand in a flood, so different from all of the others. And those words came unbidden, the words before she had turned away, when she stood next to him as the final chords faded away.

“This is not for me, is it?” She had been so sad when she spoke, as Madeleine had. It had been obvious to her. It had been obvious that the progression of notes was teeming with love that was unsure, with desire that was unmet. It could not be for her.

He grit his teeth in frustration at his injury, wishing he could put both hands to the instrument and release, by that action, his heart from this tempest. When he looked up minutes later, she was there, observing him from the threshold, as he had observed her dancing in the library that morning.

_Madeleine._

_My Madeleine._

There were tears in her eyes, as there had been in Lucie’s. For Lucie’s tears, he had felt guilt. He had felt shame.

Madeleine’s tears were infinitely worse. He had wanted to soothe Lucie’s tears so that his own errors and feelings of disquiet would be soothed. With Madeleine, he wanted to soothe her tears because he had caused them and because…

Because he loved her.

He rose slowly from the bench, waiting to see if he was going to be granted a reprieve. Although truthfully, it would not matter what she said; he only wanted her voice, her eyes, her attention on him. He was the young child who craves the notice of the one he loves, who would submit to any criticism, any correction, anything. If only he could be in her presence.

“There’s no need to leave your place there, I simply wanted to tell you that I am quite tired and I have asked Mrs.Copplan to send a tray to my room with some supper. She will provide you with whatever you require for the evening.”

The coldness and detachment in her voice struck him keenly. Before he could speak, she murmured her goodnight and he stood and listened to her light footfall until he could hear it no more. A lonely, miserable evening was before him.

The dining room was quiet during his solitary meal. He missed their lively chatter across the table, he missed her enjoyment of the first supper when she returned home. Although he was not engaged in conversation, the cacophony inside his mind raged. Normally he would have gone out for a ride, but her objection to the activity that morning at the inn kept him on solid ground. He opted for a stroll out to the gardens again. By the time he reentered the house, he had a plan. He knew her. He knew her gentle and forgiving nature. He knew her to be gracious, to be understanding. He would simply have to trust in all that he knew of her, in all that he had learned and come to love about her over the years.

He was about to climb the stairs and retire for the night when it crossed his mind that some reading might also help to calm him. Surprise filled him as he made his way down the hall and saw light coming from the room. Perhaps…

His hope was realized when he slowly pushed open the door and saw her curled up in one of the large chairs by the fireplace, a shawl adding another layer to her nightgown and robe. There was a book in her hand, but it was resting on her lap and she was staring off into space. Ordinarily he would have attempted to leave without her noticing him, not wanting to cause her any embarrassment about her state of attire.

But after last night, when she had so boldly appeared before him in a similar state at the inn, and with the current storm between them, he decided it was not something to be given much thought.

He cleared his throat and her gaze met his.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she stated flatly, although her voice had a slight quavering. “I never can sleep when someone is…when I have…”

He saw again that she was on the verge of tears and this time he was determined. In a few short steps he was in front of her, knees hitting the carpet. Her eyes widened at his movements and he took the book from her lap, closing it and setting it on the table beside the chair. His hand covered her own. He picked up each one in turn, pressing them to his cheeks, needing to feel her soft skin against his.

“Madeleine. My sweetest Maddy, please, do not cry. I am a fool and I am not deserving of your tears. Will you give me a few minutes? Will you grant me that? Let me explain.”

She was still from his first words to his last, her breathing steady throughout his speech. She listened with patience, looking at him as if she would give him all the time he wanted. She listened as he began at the beginning, listened as he gripped her hand, clinging to it like a lifeline to a drowning sailor. He told her of the slow progression of his feelings, of his fears of harming the familial ties between them, of his endeavor to let her go and his trip to France, of his jealousy of Mr.Kingston, of his conversation with Elton. The clock on the mantle passed from one hour to the next. Still she sat and listened.

“Can you forgive me? My behavior was abominable and I promise, I will never act in such a manner again.”

She nodded, somewhat overwhelmed and not quite able to speak. He bowed his head as a penitent receiving absolution and shut his eyes in relief. A weight lifted from him, but a wave of shyness rolled in and the final entreaty he had planned to give remained unspoken. He had shared with her everything that there was to share, laid himself open and honest before her, confessed his love.

All that was needed was to inquire if there was any chance that she could return the depth of his affection.

And be his prize.

He looked up at her, opened his mouth to ask that most vital questions, but she brought her fingers up to his lips and shook her head.

“I have heard enough.”

_Oh, God, no. It’s too late._

He moved to stand, to flee like an embarrassed child.

Her next words froze him to the ground.

“And now, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to kiss me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Tom, set in early 19th c. London. Madeleine and Tom have known each other since they were teenagers (her brother is married to his sister). Can they overcome their fears and choose each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than my normal, but is lots of fluff and nonsense and heart eyes. No warnings other than that. Thank you for commenting and reblogging. Lots more to come!

She waited as the seconds ticked by and he looked up at her from his kneeling position, trying to understand her request.  His eyes darted back and forth from her sparkling ones to her mouth that was curving slowly into a smile.  

“No?” she asked in amusement, her enjoyment of his sudden muteness obvious.  Shock, hope, relief, doubt.  They all formed a mosaic on the canvas of his face.  Was she merely teasing him or was the teasing real?

“Very well then,” spoken with an exaggerated huff, “I shall shoulder the burden of this endeavor.”

His gaze fixed on her lips, lips that he dreamed of tasting for so long.  Lips that he imagined loving as much as he imagined loving any other part of her.  Lips that he wanted to -

“And I will kiss you.”

Every question about Mr. Kingston, about the future, was pushed to the back of his mind at the imminent transition from fantasy to reality.

She pried her hands loose from his and raised them to his face.  Fingertips traced the lines of his eyebrows, his nose.  Knuckles brushed gently across his cheekbones, down his flushed cheeks, under his chin, along his jaw.  

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” she whispered as her thumbs followed the curve of his ears and she gave the lightest teasing pinch to the lobes, causing him to shudder while he grasped a handful of the loose material of the skirt of her nightgown to keep himself steady.

“I’ve wanted to hold you and explore you and examine you like a child with a new toy,” she continued, brushing some wayward curls from his forehead, stroking his beautiful face as she would a beloved pet.

“Remember how Cassie was so possessive of that doll you gave her for Christmas when she was six?”

He could barely think at all or recall time beyond this moment; the only thing real to him was the feel of her, the sound of her.

“She simply would not allow anyone else to hold it.  She wouldn’t relinquish her grip on it for weeks.”

Her hands returned to travel around his neck, down his shoulders, being careful not to aggravate his injury.  She kneaded his upper arms, the taut muscles inspiring a series of humming sighs that accompanied her movements.  They were expressions of approval, of gratification, and grew louder as her palms rubbed small circles against the fabric.

“She could not be persuaded to let it out of her sight, even during a bath,” Madeleine giggled at the memory of her niece.  “She slept with it every night clutched to her side.”

Her hands drifted back to his neck and she placed a few fingertips just at the right spot to feel his heartbeat, looking at him as if she was waiting for permission to be granted. A nod was her cue.  He caught his breath as she increased the pressure, feeling the rapid pulsations under his skin.  He was elated at her actions and they surpassed what he had imagined. While he had envisioned her as an eager lover and they knew each other beyond the stiff and formal acquaintance of many men and women of their time due to the nature of their familial ties, he was surprised at the lengths to which she was ignoring the widely accepted rules of conduct regarding the physical interaction between a courting couple.

Down the shadowy hallways of his memory, he recalled what it had been like to share his body with a woman. He recalled what it had been like to desire and be desired.  He recalled the intensity of lust that necessitated a hasty conclusion.

This was different.

So different.

Her fingers were on his mouth again, skipping across his lips, curling up and down like they were keys on the pianoforte.  Pressing, teasing, exploring.  

No woman had ever touched him in this way: not the first, not Lucie.  

No one.

Madeleine’s touch was not a perfunctory element of the joining of bodies, it was so far removed from the self-serving, affectionless urging he remembered.  This was thoughtful and carried out with a reverence that humbled him.  

“She kissed the doll so much that the color began to fade on its cheeks and lips.”

The pleasure to be had in the contact of skin to skin, of her hands on his face, was revelatory. Stunning in its simplicity, but simultaneously of greater intimacy than anything he had ever experienced.  Based on the sounds she was making and the brightness of her eyes, he knew without a doubt that she was taking as much pleasure in giving as he was in receiving.  

Madeleine was smiling down at him, her hair falling around her face as it had when she was standing over him in his room at the inn, when she had given him the first taste of what her touch could do to him.

“And she absolutely refused to replace it, regardless of how the years showed on it.”

_Please._

_Please kiss me._

“Are you prepared to be loved like that, Tom?”

The question was punctuated by her hands moving to slip around his neck.  Not wanting to give her any reason to cease, he could not help but shut his eyes, feeling that he had to do something to mitigate his overwhelmed senses.

He had never heard her speak like this, both in word and manner; a low, almost rough tone that fell upon his ears in the same possessive fashion as her hands on his body.  Exhilaration raced through him as her thumbs pressed into his skin and she tugged ever so slightly on the silky curls at the base of his neck.

“Are you?” she repeated before pressing her lips to his temple.

Cherished.

That was the word.

He was being cherished.

“Are you prepared to be wanted by someone –“ a pause and a kiss to one cheek, “who will not relinquish her grip on you?”

A kiss to the other cheek.

“Are you prepared to be so smothered in embraces and kisses, until your color fades?”

A kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Are you prepared to…to…”

The sudden change, the quavering of her voice caused his eyes to fly open in concern.  Her entire countenance had changed from that delightful teasing to stark vulnerability in mere seconds.  Hands fell to her lap, her breathing becoming swift and shallow.  It was if she had been shaken from the confidence that had been driving her these last minutes, as if the unfinished thought that was hanging in the air between them had drained the courage from her. She had been the leader and now the dynamic was altered.  His mind was a storm of questions about how to proceed, but he was quick in fixing on a plan.

He coaxed her onwards by a simple, firm gesture of raising a brow that left her in no doubt of its silent meaning.

“To have such a gift placed in your charge?” she whispered.

He was aching to finally have his mouth on hers, but the tears that appeared with her question alerted him to the necessity of certain assurances that had to be given immediately.

His hand covered hers and raised them from her lap to kiss the palms and knuckles and fingertips that couldn’t get their fill of him seconds before.  

“Madeleine.”

Her hands began to tremble after he spoke her name, although he knew instinctively that it was not due to fear, rather the opposite.

“Maddy.”

No, it was not fear.  

It was a surge of strength.

“Maddy mine.”

A sob caught in her throat.

“I promise you, you could not place that gift in any more eager and steady charge.”

A shudder passed through her.

“I will do whatever you wish,” he promised with steady declaration, “say whatever you wish, be held and explored and examined however you wish, until my color fades.”

He had to stop and take a deep breath, aware of how she was trembling slightly, forcing himself not to rush.  For so long he had dreamed of this and he wanted to savor it.  

“But for now, I need you to kiss me,” he commanded as he arranged her hands in their previous position, wanting her to feel as though she was in control, “Kiss me, Maddy mine, until you are sated.”

The tears slipped down her flushed cheeks, but she was smiling again, her countenance in complete contrast to what it had been when he entered the room. 

“And then I will kiss you,” a rasped promise that made her whimper and her fingers tightened their hold around his neck.

“But I will never be sated.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and nonsense with the lovebirds!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your interest in this story! There is more to come!

He was grateful that he was already in a kneeling position and not standing.

Her fingers tangled impatiently with the cravat that he loosened earlier during his solitary dinner.

“I want this off. Now.”

Ignoring the raised eyebrow of surprise at her command, she continued to wrestle with the offended article of clothing.

“Kiss me. Now,” he countered, but reached up to pull away as much as the material as he could in order to satisfy her.

Knuckles stroked down the pale length of his neck as she began her exploration.

She gasped into his mouth seconds after the initial touch of her lips on his when his hand found her knees and he moved forward, still on his knees in front of her, ever so slowly as much as the give of the barrier of her bedclothes would allow, his grip creeping up her thigh. It was simply a means of steadying himself, his slinged arm again rendering him at a disadvantage.

“Your lips are rather dry,” she whispered in observance and pulled back to look at him.

He growled in disapproval at the break of contact.

“You are like a gardener giving a report on garden soil. I consented to be your toy, madam, not a botany lesson.”

The rebuke was interrupted by her giggle.

“Cease your chattering and kiss me,” he ordered in a tone that sounded much more imperious than he had meant it and was betrayed by the amusement in his eyes.

“What would you tell him to do about the dry soil?” she inquired, inspiring a frown that in turn inspired her own smile.

“I’d instruct him to moisten it, you supremely vexatious woman.”

Her brows creased in thoughtfulness and lifted in a few seconds as the idea occurred to her.

Her tongue darted out, a quick test of the sensation, leaving a wet smear across his lips.

A fool, that’s what he was. A fool for allowing himself to be her equivalent of Cassie’s doll.

“Like that?” she queried with a catch in her breath. Her hands stilling on his neck, eyes searching his for approval.

“That will more than suffice,” he rasped and moved his uninjured hand from her thigh to rest palm down on the chair’s upholstery at her side. He was surprised at how quickly he was losing control; he did not trust himself at that moment.

She squirmed and blushed at his affirmation while her gaze darted back and forth between his mouth and his beautiful eyes that were burning blue flames. A groan was her reward when she licked her own lips before pressing them to his again. Lightly, quickly. Then with more pressure, for one, two, three heartbeats. 

Trembling at a woman’s touch was new to him. He felt like he had in the inn when she was shaving him, when he had been at her mercy and the effects of the wine; but it was also different, for then he had been terrified of giving her any indication of his true feelings. Now he was free. Now he was free from that burden of restraint. She desired him, he desired her.

Madeleine.

His Madeleine.

Finally, his Madeleine.

Finally, after so many years of desiring her, of being so close to her and yet lonely.

Finally, after so many years of being hungry for any brief touch, any fleeting brush of her fingers on his arm, any momentary pressing of her cheek to his after a long parting. 

Finally, a kiss.

Finally, kisses.

Soft kisses, seeking kisses, teasing kisses that were broken only by her giggles. Her mouth replaced the exploration of her hands minutes before. His lips, his cheeks, his chin, his nose, they were all anointed by her lips. She grew bolder, using her tongue to taste his skin, running it across his jaw. A long, low moan accompanied her return to his open mouth and the first touch of her tongue to his.

She tasted like tea and the strawberry tarts that had probably been her dinner. Sweet. Perfectly sweet. Just as he had always imagined. 

She was inching forward in the chair as her education in kissing progressed, as the giggles gave way to other sounds, the frequency and intensity of them driving him wild. He opened his eyes when they turned to whimpers of frustration and the fervency of her kisses grew. Her expression was one of swiftly occurring distress and he almost panicked, thinking that she was in pain or regretting everything that was occurring.

“What is it, my darling?”

My darling.

My Madeleine.

Please, be my Madeleine.

“Closer. Closer,” was the request, given in a tone that was trembling and urgent.

She abandoned his face and neck, reaching down to grab at the fabric of her nightgown and wrapper that was acting as a barrier between them. Upon realizing that she was going to have to lift both because she wanted to be pressed against him, he stopped her. Although he had imagined denying her when he let himself wander into the most ardent of his daydreams, he had not considered the possibility that he would be the one to deny first. 

“Madeleine, no.”

But how it both thrilled and terrified him, not knowing if she would reject or receive his direction.

He knew she heard him, but she continued to wrench at the white muslin so that it was revealing her bare legs almost up to knees, her bottom scooting forward and reaching the edge of the chair, her thighs trapping him.

“Please,” she nearly sobbed, every trace of her glee from seconds ago disappearing. “Closer, please.”

“Darling, I’m your one winged sparrow, remember?” he indicated with a nod to his injury, fighting to maintain a modicum of rational thought, attempting a smile that would perhaps bring back her lighthearted mood. “And I do not want to do anything that I regret.”

“You love me.”

It was not a question. She stated it as a reason.

And what a relief. What a relief to be freed from that mask, to be freed from fearing discovery.

What a relief to speak the words, to assure her.

“I do.”

“Then let me close. Please.”

Now the tears were loosed upon her flushed cheeks.

She wanted him.

She loved him.

It struck him suddenly, the sense of being loved, of wanting to comfort her, of feeling in that moment that he would do anything to soothe whatever had her in distress.

The coolness of the evening air was beginning to cause her to tremble as it hit her now partially bare legs and the vulnerable desperation in her voice drove him to grant her plea.

He pulled her to his chest as best he could, although he was nearly past caring about any further discomfort in his shoulder. 

But the little sobs eased and she began to calm as soon as she was pressed against him and her arms were wrapped around him, calmed as quickly as the distress had arisen.

He remembered how he had felt when his nieces and nephews were infants and Maddy showed him how to translate that tenderness of sentiment into a physical manifestation. The gentle caresses and soft cooing that acted like a balm to a wound, they came rushing back to him. 

So he followed the impulse and let his hand wander to rub slowly across her shoulders and down her back. A deep sigh, a prolonged hum of approval let him know that the impulse was correct. She pressed her cheek against the silkiness of his waistcoat.

“Shh, all is well, darling. I am here.”

When she lifted her head to look at him, a tentative smile lit her countenance.

“May I kiss you again, Tom?”

“God, yes,” he replied without hesitation, even though he knew he should ask her what had caused her tears, however brief they may have been.

But he could not deny her again so soon, not when she was looking at him like this, not when her hands were cupping his face and she asked with such a pure eager voice that a child would employ when asking for another sweet.

He indulged her; and with every kiss, she helped him erase the doubts and fears that had occupied his heart and mind all those days and months and years. The space was filled up with love, with hope, with anticipation.

He felt rather than saw the smile that lifted the corners of her mouth and she pulled away from him, beginning to let her arms fall from their hold around him.

“It is your turn now,” she murmured in a tone that he had never heard and that threatened to destroy any remaining self-control he possessed.

Something dark and delicious came over his face. It was the last thing she saw before his hand gripped her throat and her eyes slid shut. The force of his moving forward pushed her up against the high back of the chair, but she was grateful to have something solid to support her.

Because this was not being kissed or explored, as he had consented to let her do.

It was beyond that.

It was beyond need, beyond desire.

This was being marked.

This was being secured.

“My prize,” he whispered against her swollen lips.

This was being claimed.


End file.
